Blood and Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

and he was down. Flat on his face, a bullet through his head. Dead.
    It is said those with the most money get the most justice. And that appeared to be true in Quinton’s case. It seems the fourteen-year-old intruder came from a family with some wealth, while Quinton did not. In fact, his lawyer wasn’t up to much and the end result was a hanging judge handed down a sentence of ten years. Tried and convicted of manslaughter. Sent to Kingston Penitentiary. Locked away.
    Now, seated at the table in the visitors’ hall of the correctional institution, Annette couldn’t hold back her tears. Seeing her husband in this place always made her cry. Glancing at Jeremy, she knew he didn’t deserve this either.
    Before long, their time was up. They had to leave again. Leaving Jeremy’s father behind.
    On the long way home, Annette explained to her son how this had all happened. She explained about the intruder, how he’d entered through the window, his father had shot him while he was trying to escape. She explained about how his father didn’t deserve to be in prison. He was only protecting his home and his family.
    Jeremy wasn’t stupid. He knew what that meant. He realized the burglar, who had invaded their home, deserved to die. His father always did the right thing, and had killed someone who deserved it. He was glad the boy was dead. He wished he could’ve been the one who did it. It made him angry.
    “Mommy, Daddy did the right thing, right?”
    “Yes honey, he did.”
    Jeremy looked out the side window as they sped down the highway toward home. He was deep in thought.
     
     
    Tuesday, August 9th, 6:22 PM
     
    JAKE accompanied Hank to King City. Two uniformed officers joined them there. The building on Canderline Street the printout showed as Bronson’s residence, was an ancient apartment complex. They took the elevator to the third floor. Jake followed behind Hank and the uniforms as they approached the door of 3B.
    The door was opened to Hank’s knock by an elderly woman. She was wearing a faded housecoat. That, and the rest of her attire, appeared to have been scrounged from Goodwill. She looked at them blankly. As she spoke, the ash fell from a cigarette dangling from her mouth and landed on the filthy carpet. “What is it?” she demanded.
    Hank showed the grizzled old woman his badge. “We would like to talk to Chad Bronson,” he said.
    “He ain’t here.”
    “Can you tell me where he is?” Hank asked.
    “Ain’t seen him ‘round for a week or more,” she said, and then asked, “What’s he done this time?”
    Hank avoided the question. “This is important,” he said. “Can you think of where he might be?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Are you his mother?”
    “The only one he has.” She blinked a toothless grin.
    Hank eventually convinced her to tell him where her son worked. A little more coaxing and they were allowed in and led to Bronson’s room, where she let them open a few drawers, check the closet, and perform a basic search. There wasn’t much to go through anyway. Just a few clothes in a narrow closet. A dresser with more clothes. A few knickknacks on top. A picture of Chad posing with his car. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
    “If you see him, tell him to get his butt home,” the old woman said, as they were leaving. “Ain’t been outa’ this place for a week, an’ I need my meds.”
    Hank assured her they would.
    The factory where Bronson worked was only a couple of blocks away. They arrived at King City Foods in a few minutes.
    Hank flashed his badge to the evening supervisor, and they were soon led into a small office at the front of the building.
    The supervisor consulted an obsolete computer perched at the back of his desk. He squinted at the tiny monitor. “Bronson works the graveyard shift. Midnight till 8:00:am. He hasn’t shown up for work in several days though,” he said. “That appears to be unusual for him. No matter what else he is, he seems to be a